


Umbrella

by grandmatabs



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Good Omens AU, M/M, Oneshot, hippie aziraphale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2020-09-28 07:02:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20421875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandmatabs/pseuds/grandmatabs
Summary: Aziraphale is the base player for a Christian rock band and Crowley runs the sound for a jazz band with questionable morals; somehow the two bands keep getting double booked?





	1. Chapter 1

“Well that went over like a lead balloon.” 

“Hmm?” Aziraphale hadn’t been paying much attention to the world around him. He was looking up at the sky, instead, wondering if the gather grey clouds really were promising rain. His umbrella was at the ready, if they were. His reverie was only broken by an unexpected voice beside him, the presence of a person he had not felt approaching his curb. Aziraphale quickly stubbed out the end of the, well, ‘concert cigarette’ he’d been working on and shoved it in his pocket, still hot. He looked closer at the newcomer, all limbs and dark clothes, thin fingers jammed into his pockets and resting with hips at what looked to be an uncomfortable angle. He didn’t recognize him. 

“That,” the stranger said, freeing one of his hands in order to flap it at the concert hall behind them. “I don’t think my folks care much for yours.” He turned thoughtful, tapping a thumb against his lower lip and looking up at the sky. At least, he seemed to be looking at the sky. Aziraphale couldn’t tell past the pitch sunglasses on his face. 

“Oh,” he said, beginning to wrack his brain. Slowly, a few fragments of recognition came to him. Before the show, he had seen a splash of red hair with the other band, bothering with the sound equipment. Had he gone up to the soundboard? Well, in any case, he had to be with the other band that had caused all the trouble. “Yeah.” He was still working on expelling all the negative vibes of the night, and the aforementioned cigarette had done plenty to help with that, but it was making it more difficult to keep up.  
The stranger didn’t seem to notice Aziraphale’s lag. “You think they were disappointed about having shows slashed in half, or glad they got to see both?” He apparently wasn’t leaving anytime soon. That was alright, there were worse things than a lanky stranger. Gabriel, for example. That was mean. True, but mean. 

“I think it depends on the person, you know?” There was a low growl of thunder overhead and they both looked up instinctively. It wasn’t as though they both had to stand on the street curb, as if they were waiting for something. Well, maybe the stranger was. Aziraphale walked most places, to Gabriel’s frustration. The first raindrop landed on the tip of his nose, and while the stranger naturally stepped closer, Aziraphale opened up the rainbow umbrella he kept with him anytime the forecast looked wet. He had to hold it a little higher than usual to accommodate the taller redhead who, for the first time, looked down at Aziraphale. He held out a hand that seemed to be made up entirely of knuckles. 

“Anthony J. Crowley. Most people just call me Crowley. Bit of a phase where some called me Crawly, didn’t care much for that if I’m being honest. And you are?” 

Aziraphale blinked, looking up. It took his brain a moment to find the command to make his own hand shake Crowley’s. “Aziraphale,” he said. “But you can call me-” 

“Angel.” Crowley interrupted. He released Aziraphale’s hand and looked out at the sky once more (which had now become a steady downpour). “I’ll call you Angel." 


	2. What kind of jazz band has that many tubas?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley already begins pining over Aziraphale and Gabriel accuses Beelzebub of having too many tubas.
> 
> * * *

“That’s ma point,” the problem was, now Crowley wasn’t sure he could remember what the point _was_. They had gone round and round in some strange conversation and now they seemed to be circling the drain somewhere around the _ocean_ and _dolphins_. He had worked hard enough just to convince Aziraphale to come get a drink with him, he couldn’t let it all go to waste now. 

"Mammals," Aziraphale offered. 

"Hmm?" Crowley tried to wade through the alcoholic haze of his mind. 

"Dolphins are mammals." Aziraphale said it in the very matter-of-fact, practiced ease of someone well-learned. That was hardly fair. Someone who looked like he did shouldn’t be allowed to be intelligent as well. He was all soft around the edges and gave the same sort of feeling as a rainy day, or that funny three am feeling when you were up past everything else and the world was quiet and peaceful. It was a soft, sleepy feeling that was exactly the opposite of the restless energy that Crowley usually felt. 

“Yeah,” Crowley said, trying to remember what he had been talking about. 

“Another glass?” Aziraphale asked, interrupting Crowley before he could rediscover the point of their doomed conversation. He was holding up his nearly empty glass to accentuate the question. It was an odd thing. Wine was really the last thing he had expected to Aziraphale to drink (he hadn’t expected him to drink at all, if he was being honest), but here they were, drinking the oldest wine this bar had to offer. He didn’t mind it. Finishing off what was left of his own glass, he set it back down on the table with a flourish. 

“Might as well.” If that drew the evening out a little more, he was in favor of it. He wasn’t really sure what it was about this soft base player (he kept using that word, soft, but it was because he wasn’t sure what other word better suited the gentle eyes and worn edges) that had him all twisted up inside. He was a part of a _Christian_ band after all, and that was just asking for trouble. He couldn’t figure him out, was the problem. Sure, he was a part of a Christian band, but he was sitting here in a bar, drinking with Crowley. Christian’s were very clear on how they felt about certain things (Crowley knew more than enough about that) and most of those things meant that Crowley ought to be staying as far away as possible. 

That being said, Aziraphale was very contradictory. He wore a pair of rainbow suspenders, coupled with a cross necklace that hung in the open space of his unbuttoned shirt, and hell, he was wearing rainbow eyeshadow. He looked like he had just walked out of a Woodstock festival, give or take thirty pounds. By all rights, he wasn’t the type of person Crowley would expect to be wearing an open shirt, and yet he couldn’t picture him in anything else. It suited him more than Crowley would have liked, because it was fairly distracting and he had to keep reminding himself not to stare. 

He was getting very far away from his original thought of why exactly he felt an odd fascination this person who was practically still a stranger, but had, without question, shared his umbrella with Crowley. There was nothing particularly strange about the gesture, he knew, but it was the ease in which it had happened that had startled Crowley. They didn’t live in a world where kindness was a given, but even he hadn’t paused a moment to question why a stranger wouldn’t share his umbrella when he had stepped closer, and he still wasn’t sure why he had done that either. 

Somewhere in all the introspection, Aziraphale had ordered two more glasses of wine and the full glasses were slid in front of them. Aziraphale was the first of them to take a sip, eyes shut in a sort of pleased reverie as he took an experimental sip. Crowley watched, forgetting about his own glass until Aziraphale opened his eyes again and he was forced to pretend he’d been watching the tv on the far wall instead. He took several swallows of his own wine and then bit the bullet. 

“So then, how does someone like you put up with that prick of a lead singer you’ve got?” Warning bells went off in Crowley’s head. That was NOT the bullet he’d meant to bite, and that was not how it was supposed to come out. He had to be the biggest idiot in all of kingdom come. 

Aziraphale seemed to nearly choke on his wine, then he giggled. An hour earlier, if Crowley had been asked when it was appropriate for a grown man to giggle, he would have said never. Now, he feared that answer might have changed.  
“Sorry, bit on the nose,” he admitted. Not that Aziraphale seemed to mind that, flapping a hand at Crowley to wave him off it. 

“S’alright. He is a bit of a prick sometimes, but someone has to keep them all remembering what the point is. Gabe gets caught up on the rules forgets that it’s the spirit of things, you know? But he’s not all bad.” He wore a little knowing smile that hinted that Crowley hadn’t been the only person to ask him that question. Interesting. Crowley was going to have to spend some time researching their band. 

“Right…” there were other questions he wanted to ask, but he wanted to phrase them a little better than he had that one. He didn’t get the chance. Aziraphale was looking over Crowley’s shoulder at something, and his face had gone ashen, quickly draining off what was left of his (how many cups was it now?) wine. Crowley shifted in his chair to look back towards the door of the bar. Immediately, he felt his own face match Aziraphale’s. He cursed. 

Walking in together, each looking angry in their own way, was Aziraphale’s Gabriel and Crowley’s own Beelzebub. This was about to turn into a shitstorm. He turned back to face Aziraphale, grabbed his own wine glass and downed it as quickly as humanly possible. 

“It’s been nice knowing you.” Crowley said, trying to be offhand about it. He knew how Beelzebub felt about anything to do with Christians, and he didn’t imagine that Aziraphale’s tightwad band leader would care much for him being in a bar with someone who ran sound for a..._questionable_ jazz band (could this be compared to Romeo and Juliet, or was that too on the nose?). 

“It might not be that bad…” Aziraphale offered, not sounding particularly confident about it. They were adults after all, they ought to be allowed to go out and have an adult drink with whomever they wanted. And they could both keep telling themselves that the entire time their perspective ‘bosses’ yelled at them. 

“What exactly are you doing?” Gabriel reached them first, voice low and poised and still very threatening somehow. Aziraphale furrowed his eyebrows and sunk his chin into his neck, doing a very good job at looking confused. 

“Sorry? Having a drink, clearly.” He held up his empty wine glass to make his point, suddenly looking as innocent as a newborn child. Crowley might have chuckled, if Beelzebub hadn’t reached the table right about that moment. 

“Crowley,” they said it simply, in that disappointed manner that told him they had been expecting him to fuck up. Which was to say, the same way they always greeted him. Crowley wondered briefly if he could pull off innocent as well as Aziraphale did. He decided it was best not to try. 

“Beelzebub,” he began, laying on as much sugar as he could into his voice, “so good to see you.” Ass kissing rarely worked, but far be it from Crowley to give up on a method once he’d picked it. They glowered, if possible, even more. 

“-do you know who this is?” Gabriel was chiding Aziraphale, who was still looking all manner of innocent and unaware. 

“He’s a very nice man,” he explained, eyes wide. Crowley smirked, which caused Beelzebub to narrow their eyes. 

“Don’t waste your breath, Crowley. Fraternizing with the enemy?” They raised an eyebrow. Crowley did manage to summon up a confused look at that. 

“Fraternizing? The enemy?” 

Across the table, Gabriel looked as though steam was about to start pouring out of his ears. “He’s a part of that, that...group that went on before us. I’d call it a band, but they weren’t exactly playing music.” He cast a sideways glance at Beelzebub, which Crowley was grateful for because it took their attention off of him. 

“Isn’t there something in your book about getting the log out of your own eye?” They hissed, drawing their shoulders up as if that somehow made them taller. “You can bitch about our music when yours actually sounds better. At least we’re playing something that requires _talent._” 

Gabriel’s face was turning red. A vein was popping in his neck. “Talent? What kind of jazz band has that many tubas?” He had raised his voice to a shout and the bar went quiet. Beelzebub brandished their pentagram necklace at him and hissed. He took a step back and fixed a nonexistent wrinkle on his collar. 

“Aziraphale. We’re going.” He turned on his heel and strode for the door, not looking back to see if Aziraphale was following. And yet, Aziraphale did, with much stuttering and apologizing and fumbling at some bills in his shirt pocket that spilled out on the table in a chaotic mess. 

“Sorry, uh, peace man. Next time!” He stumbled out after Gabriel, before Crowley could figure out what the best way to ask for his number was. He stared for another moment before Beelzebub cleared their throat. 

“Could you at least try to act like you’re not some pathetic, infatuated dog already?” They asked. It hit a little too close to home. 

“I’ll do my best,” Crowley sneered in return, making a mental note to make sure they sounded terrible in the next concert. 


	3. I'm bad at chapter titles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gabriel is a dick to Aziraphale and Aziraphale steals Crowley's cigarette.

The concert hall buzzed. They were still hours away from the show, but there were already people filling lines outside, and everyone inside was working away at getting things set up and ready for the upcoming show. It buzzed with activity and noise and most of all, tension. It had happened again. At least this time, the Hellhound Quartet was set to perform in a different part of the building, there would be no sharing sets or cutting things short. The only still had to bring their things into the same area, speak to the same people, and, what seemed to be the worst bit for some of them, be civil to one another. 

If it hadn’t been for Gabriel and Beelzebub, things might not have been so bad. Aziraphale was unsure of what had gone on between the two of them, but he was beginning to feel like an intruder in a very strange story every time he caught them glaring at one another. He had caught a glimpse of hellfire hair only briefly, Crowley with the opposite group shouting at someone not to drop his baby (it had appeared to be a sound board). 

Crowley had cut off his yelling when he noticed Aziraphale and smiled apprehensively. Aziraphale had offered a little wave back, then they’d dropped the sound board and Crowley had gone back to shouting. Gabriel had insisted that they all help to unload instruments and equipment in order to get it done sooner and the hall had been reduced to buzzing movements and no time to look for anyone familiar. The extra drive had them set up for the show nearly an hour early, none of them speaking much as Gabriel paced back and forth like a caged animal. 

“They did this on purpose,” he finally said, not for the first time since finding out about their presence. Aziraphale had his doubts on that matter, but he didn’t say as much. It was never a good idea to tell Gabriel he was wrong when he was in a mood like this. Through the walls, they could almost hear the distant sound of very terrible jazz music. Aziraphale had taken to listening to the Hellhound Quartet over the last month, and most of what he’d found out about it, was that it was not very good jazz. 

He wouldn’t tell Gabriel that, either. Telling Gabriel something he liked in a mood like this was nearly as bad as telling him he was wrong. Besides, that would require admitting that Aziraphale had been listening to their music which, in Crowley’s words, would go over like a lead balloon. So, like the rest of them, Aziraphale stayed quiet. He slipped the miniature bible from one of the baggy pockets of his pants and decided that Psalms would be a good choice for the moment. From a different pocket, he produced a package of off-brand oreos that he began absentmindedly opening with his free hand, until they were snatched away. Aziraphale looked up, mid-passage, to see Gabriel chucking them into the nearest trash can. 

“Hey,” he said, without much conviction, because there was no point in arguing with Gabriel when he was like this. Gabriel turned his smoldering glare back at Aziraphale, as if he was somehow the source of all their problems. This was going to be a rough one.

“If you’re going to insist on wearing shirts like that-” he waved a hand at Aziraphale’s top, “the least you could do is lose the gut.” 

Aziraphale tugged self-consciously now at the edge of his shirt. He’d been rather proud to find it, actually. It cut off a few inches above his pants, displaying a proud rainbow on the front and the word ‘BLESSED’ in gold print. He liked all the lines it crossed and the different parts of himself that it pulled together. He felt like it made a statement. Only now he just noticed how his stomach did stick out a little in the few inches between the shirt and his pants. He frowned. 

“It’s fashionable.” He tried, weakly. It had been more fashionable fifty years earlier, and nobody else in the group had this particular sense of fashion, but _ it had been _ fashionable once. That had to count for something. But nobody spoke up in his defense because, at the end of the day, Aziraphale would always be the odd one out. He felt he ought to have a little kinship with Michael, as he was the only one in the group who consistently referred to them with the proper pronouns, while the rest of the group still blithely referred to them as ‘her’. He didn’t think that got him that many points in their book, though. He think anything gained many points in their book. 

“Should you really be that worried about fashion, Aziraphale? Do you think that Jesus was that concerned about fashion during his ministry?” Gabriel was still all accusations and misplaced anger and Aziraphale suddenly felt he wasn’t in the mood to be on the receiving end of one of his temper tantrums. 

“I doubt he was all that picky about his disciple’s weight, either.” He mumbled, loud enough for Gabriel to hear. The place went quiet. A vein was beginning to pulse in Gabriel’s neck, and that was never a good sign. 

“Just go outside and smoke a joint before I find a way to throw you out of the band.” 

Aziraphale obliged.  


* * *

For all the buildup of it, the show passed just like any other. Gabriel got over himself enough to act the part of a ‘godly lead singer’ and Aziraphale, as always, found his relief in the music. He could put up with a hundred Gabriels if it meant he could keep doing what he loved. And really, he knew that Gabriel wasn’t all bad. That was the thing about being brothers - fights always burned fast and hot, but faded just as quickly. By the end of the show, Gabriel was thumping him on the back and saying job well done, the Hellhound Quartet well out of mind for most of the band by now. 

Most of them. Aziraphale excused himself from the after party/bible study, something he did often enough that nobody questioned him. He got a different kind of high from concerts, especially if they played a set with worship songs. It usually left him quiet, reflective, and not interested in discussing morality or dissecting bible verses. The crowds were all trickling away and, with a little dodging of fans, Aziraphale found himself breaking through an exit at the back of the building and gulping in fresh air. He liked music. He didn’t like the crowds. Of course, the idea of people was always nice, but the reality of them was rarely as pleasant. 

“Thought you might wind up out here.” It was a familiar voice that some might have termed oily, if they weren’t Aziraphale. But he was Aziraphale, and that meant he thought it sounded rather melancholic. He turned to find the owner of the voice leaning against the wall of the building next to the door he’d just exited from. He smiled, because that was the polite thing to do. 

“Hello Crowley.” 

Crowley had a cigarette dangling from his fingertips and something about the way he was holding it gave Aziraphale the impression that he didn’t actually smoke the thing, he just liked the way that he looked holding it. That in mind, Aziraphale stole it, and he did actually take a drag off of it. Crowley, who had up till now been looking very collected, now looked as though his jaw was about to unhinge. 

“Angel,” he replied, eyeing the cigarette that Aziraphale had now claimed. Aziraphale smiled again, this time not just to be polite. 

“Good to see you again,” he managed, once he got past his own stutter over the name he hadn’t thought would stick. Stupid, really. No reason to get worked up over a stranger. But then Crowley didn’t feel much like a stranger. He had been hoping, secretly, to see him again for the past month. There wasn’t anyone he could admit that to though, not after the verbal beating he’d gotten from Gabriel for daring to have a drink with him. 

_ “You really think you’re being a good example handing out with the likes of him?” _ Gabriel had demanded, and Aziraphale had only narrowly stopped himself from responding with something about Jesus not coming to spend time with ‘holy people’. He had sat quietly through the lecture, stated he wouldn’t make a similar mistake, and now here he was a month later, hoping very much to make a similar mistake. 

“Are you going to give that back?” Crowley finally asked, with a flick of his long fingers towards the cigarette. Aziraphale breathed out a stream of smoke. 

“Are you going to smoke it if I do?” He asked. Crowley didn’t reply. They stood in silence like that for a long few moments, doing his best to keep his eyes looking out. They were in a sort of alley between the buildings of the venue, the kind of place that employees might hide from their bosses. Well. He supposed that was what they were doing at the moment. For all his efforts, his eyes kept drifting back to the dark figure painted against the pale concrete wall. He was more angles than Aziraphale remembered, or maybe it was just the outfit. His sleeves were pushed up past his forearms and the shirt under his dark sweater was white. The glasses remained, square and dark and keeping Aziraphale from being able to tell if he was looking back. 

Altogether, the look made him sharp (not in the sense of fashion, though he was that as well). Almost intimidating, if Aziraphale hadn’t already spoken to him enough to understand that he was as far from properly intimidating as a person could get. He burned through the rest of the cigarette in his contemplation, beginning to think that this was it. He had built something up in his mind that didn’t belong, and this chance meeting was just that; chance. He stubbed out the end of the cigarette against the wall, and pulled a napkin from his pocket to carefully fold the end into, tucking that back into his pocket to throw out later. Crowley might have been watching him from the angle of his sunglasses, but there was no way to properly tell. When Aziraphale was finished, he cleared his throat and stepped off the wall. 

“Well then, I guess you probably can’t slip away long enough for a drink?” He jammed his fingers into the pockets of his black jeans and if Aziraphale didn’t know better, he might have taken it for a nervous gesture. He told himself not to be relieved. He told himself that it would be best to politely decline and go back inside and join the rest of the band in their bible study. He took a break. 

“Not really thirsty,” he said, and Crowley definitely did not flinch. “But I could do with something to eat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long! I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with the story, so it's definitely a process of trying to decide what to do next.


	4. Still bad at chapter titles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley and Aziraphale eat sushi and Crowley has inappropriate thoughts.

Crowley wasn’t just in charge of the sound for the Hellhound Quartet. He also planned the booking of shows. So maybe he had kept track of Heavenbound, and maybe he had looked up their upcoming shows and maybe he had called around until one of the venues had said that they had a secondary space that could hold another concert on the same night. Maybe. Or maybe not. That would be an absurd thing to do after all, even more absurd if he had done it all just for the opportunity to catch a glimpse of a certain base player who had probably forgotten all about him. 

The unfortunate truth, though, was that Crowley was nothing short of absurd when it came to Aziraphale. _Angel._ He was still kicking himself for that one. What kind of person just decided to call a near perfect stranger _‘Angel’?_ That was the problem of it all, Aziraphale didn’t feel like a stranger. Seeing him was something more like, _‘oh hello, Good to be home’._ Ridiculous. Stupid. He’d insisted to himself all night that Aziraphale would hardly remember him (despite how every moment of that night at the bar had been seared into Crowley’s memory), that the little wave while unloading had been merely polite, and that there was no chance of him coming out the same back door of the building, much less agreeing to another drink. Well, the drink hadn’t happened. 

Crowley had been preparing himself for the refusal, steeling himself for the inevitable, but that hadn’t kept his heart from _plummeting_ when the angel had said no. Immediately, his mind had filled up with apologies and a good self-beating until Aziraphale’s voice trickled through the worst of it with an offer of food instead. The world had promptly resumed proper rotation of the sun, then tilted off its axis once more as the invitation settled into Crowley’s brain and he had fumbled for a response. He must have mumbled something vaguely coherent as a yes, because now he found himself seated at a table across from a man with distractingly blue eyes. 

His process of eating the sushi rolls they had chosen bordered on obscene, full of appreciative noises and licking his fingers? Crowley’s own plate lay practically untouched in front of him as he tried and failed to keep from staring. He had thought it reasonable, at first, to be put out at the lack of drinking. That was before he knew how it intoxicating watching Aziraphale eat could be. 

There had to be a special place in hell reserved for people like Crowley. Here he was, sitting at a table with what might as well be an actual angel, having _thoughts._ It was no wonder he’d been fired from his last position, that short stint of running sound for a Christian band. That was a bit of information he hoped Aziraphale never ran across, not that he thought the other man spent his own time looking up information about him (Crowley himself had spent a good portion of the last month looking up and reading every last article of information available about both Heavenbound and their base player). 

Aziraphale chose that moment to hum appreciatively at the very last bite off his plate and in some out of body experience, Crowley watched himself slide his own hardly touched plate across the table towards him. Aziraphale looked at him inquisitively and Crowley looked off, mumbling about not being very hungry. His glasses didn’t feel dark enough when faced with Aziraphale’s blue eyes. He was endlessly relieved when Aziraphale didn’t question him about aloud, because he was very certain that it would be impossible to form a coherent sentence at the moment. 

He didn’t remember it being this difficult to talk the last time they had met, but he suspected that had something to do with copious amounts of alcohol and the distinct lack of Aziraphale making a properly _indecent_ noise as he tucked into the fresh plate (really, Crowley had a sinking feeling that of the two of them, Aziraphale was not the indecent one). 

“Crowley,” 

He realized too late that Aziraphale had been talking to him. He made a noise that he hoped was vague enough to apply to whatever it was Aziraphale was saying. The benevolent smile he bestowed in response was enough to assure Crowley that his reply had betrayed him. At least Aziraphale didn’t appear too upset about it. 

“Gabriel is always telling me I ought to stop babbling. I didn’t mean to bore you.” He looked down in a self-deprecating way, interest in his plate seemingly deflated. Something cold and black had settled into Crowley’s stomach. It was something like regret and something like anger and words were building up in an incoherent mess behind his lips. 

“What?” He finally spat out stupidly, before, “bore?” 

Aziraphale appeared to be working on another self-deprecating response, but Crowly repeated, _“bore?”_ In a more insistent and incredulous tone. Aziraphale flushed a soft pink that rose up from the collar of his shirt. He absolutely refused to look up. 

“I’m sure you have more interesting ways to spend your time,” he gave a half-hearted nudge to one of the remaining sushi rolls. The cold thing in Crowley’s stomach grew out towards his limbs. He wanted to know what, _who_ had done this to Aziraphale. 

“You’re not boring.” The protest felt weak compared to the hundreds of things he wanted to say, but felt would probably scare him off. He wasn’t boring, he was _distracting_, which was entirely different. He didn’t think he could tell Aziraphale that, though. Aziraphale smiled weakly, but still didn’t look up enough to meet Crowley’s eyes. 

“That’s very kind of you to say.” 

Crowley scoffed on principle. “I’m not _kind_.” He said it like it was a dirty word. He wasn’t anything like kind, he certainly wouldn’t sit here out of charity or pity, and he’d never been known to stick around anywhere if he was bored. Again though, that felt like too much to say, so instead he settled for a sigh and a skirting around the truth. 

“Listen, I just, got distracted. It’s been a long couple weeks and sometimes I forget to live in the moment.” It was truthful enough. It had been a long couple weeks waiting for this concert, he had been distracted by Aziraphale, and he hadn’t been living in the current moment, his imagination had taken him somewhere into the indistinct future where he could play at the idea that this was a regular thing. But instead of drawing a relieved smile and renewed conversation from Aziraphale, the other man immediately looked concerned (the sight could have been enough to distract Crowley into a whole new set of daydreams, but he made an effort to stay in the moment). 

“Oh, I didn’t mean to keep you if you need to rest. These concerts go so late, you probably need to get to bed,” Aziraphale twisted around to look at a clock on the wall while Crowley bit back an offer to share said bed. He already knew the clock on the wall was well past midnight, but he didn’t have anything planned the next day, which meant he could sleep until the sun went back down, if he wanted. “I would rather be here,” Crowley hadn’t meant to sound earnest, but it did earn him a smile and Aziraphale finally turned his attention back to the half-finished plate of sushi. 

“I disagree with you, you know,” he said before biting off half of a tuna roll and catching a drip of sauce that almost spilled down his chin with a thumb (there was an apologetic look, but Crowley was too transfixed to notice). 

He was trying very hard to remain focused, and still all he managed to get out was a, “that so, Angel?” He was more than a little pleased to see it made Aziraphale blush again. 

“Yes,” he continued on, once he’d swallowed his bite. “I think you are kind.” He said it with the prim satisfaction of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. It was innocent looking, sure, but Crowley was studying him hard enough to see the slight twinkle in his eyes. 

Crowley glowered, but his heart wasn’t really in it. “And I think everyone around you thinking you’re some nice, innocent soul is missing out on the fact that you’re really a bit of a bastard deep down.” Aziraphale made a sound of protest, before pushing the second half of the tuna roll into his mouth, which told Crowley he wasn’t really offended by it. And the night went on. It was difficult to say what they really talked about, once they got around to it. Something about whales and somethings about old snuff boxes and everything else under the sun. The only thing they both religiously avoided the topic of was, well, religion. They avoided it so thoroughly that it seemed to hang in the air between them as if there was a third person at the table that they were both ignoring. 

They were very politely asked to leave the restaurant at a little after two in the morning, after most of the lights had been shut off and their waiter had been pointedly sweeping the floor next to their table. Crowley insisted on paying, and Aziraphale added to his tip when he wasn’t looking and Crowley pretended not to notice. They walked in what seemed like an aimless fashion, still talking in the easy way that Crowley had rediscovered at some point during the night. He knew that eventually one of them would have to bring up leaving, and he was very determined that it would not be him. 

He came to a very rude revelation after twenty minutes of walking that Aziraphale had been subtly leading them back to Crowley’s hotel. He was left to wonder if that was his way of telling Crowley the night was over, or if there was something _else_ in the meaning of it. Both of those thoughts were dashed when Aziraphale looked up at the building in mild surprise. 

“Oh, I didn’t intend to walk back to my hotel. All the same, it probably is for the best…” he let it trail off there, and Crowley took some joy in the fact that he looked disheartened at the thought. Then, it settled in that this was apparently Aziraphale’s hotel as well. There were a hundred things worth thinking about there, none of them thoughts he felt safe to entertain while standing beside Aziraphale. “Is this your hotel?” Crowley asked, when he realized that Aziraphale was still waiting for a response. “We’re staying here too. Crazy, isn’t it?” He looked up at the building himself, doing his best to be nonchalant about it. It was late (or early, whichever), but he couldn’t find it in him to let the night end just yet. 

“Oh, that is a coincidence,” Aziraphale sounded pleased. Or maybe that was just wistful thinking. “First the concert hall and now the hotel, do you think your Beelzebub and my Gabriel have run into each other here?” There was that hint of bastard in his tone again, that told Crowley he would find joy in watching the two of them bluster at each other. Crowley couldn’t help but agree with that sentiment. “Sorta feel like you’re watching something dirty any time the two of them are arguing,” he tried to keep the amusement out of his tone and failed. Aziraphale snickered. 

“There is something satisfying about watching someone get under Gabriel’s skin for once. Not that I enjoy his pain, but..” the way he trailed off gave the impression that he very much did, in fact, enjoy Gabriel’s pain. They both laughed. What was left after the laughter was the awkward silence of two people who know that a night is over but are unsure of how to end it. Crowley was currently wondering just how much an attempted kiss would muck things up, while Aziraphale was fidgeting with the clasp of his suspenders. Eventually, Crowley decided that he didn’t want to push his luck, and tried instead to be sure of future contact. 

“D’you have a facebook?” He asked, cringing at how forced it sounded out loud. 

“Ah, no.” Aziraphale had gone sheepish, hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. 

“No facebook? Well...how about twitter?” Surely the man had to have a twitter, he was a celebrity for someone’s sake. Aziraphale shook his head. 

“Snapchat? Instagram?” Each ensuing suggestion was met with hesitant no’s and sheepish shakes of his head until Crowley began to wonder if Aziraphale just didn’t want Crowley to have contact. Helpless and about to give up, Crowley tried one last option (he hadn’t wanted to be so direct, but oh well). 

“What about a phone? You’ve got to have a phone.” He didn’t like how desperate he sounded with that. Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice, rather triumphantly digging around in an oversized pocket and pulling out what most people would refer to as an artifact. 

“I’ve got this,” Aizraphale offered, still triumphant and proud of his brick of a phone that still folded in half at the middle. 

“That’s not a phone, that’s a brick. You could throw that at a wall and break the wall. Did you get that back in the sixties with your wardrobe?” 

Aziraphale pouted. “Don’t poke fun,” he said, unconvincingly. Crowley might had felt bad if he hadn’t figured out that Aziraphale _liked_ being teased, if it was done in the right manner. So he settled for plucking the thing out of Aziraphale’s hands and flipping it open. Aizraphale made a weak sound of protest, but didn’t try to take it from him. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Putting my number in, what do you think?” Crowley punched at the stiff numbers on the keyboard as if they had done him a personal disservice. Really, the numbers weren’t bad. It was trying to type in his name that gave him trouble. It was one of those ancient keyboards that you had to press the same button multiple times just to get the right letter. If he hadn’t known it would survive, he might have dropped the phone on the pavement just so he could insist on buying a new one to make up for it. Well, he would find another reason for that. With his contact information in, he sent himself a text just to be sure that he wouldn’t have to wait on Aziraphale texting him. He considered sending something complicated or racy, but decided that would take too long to type out and just sent a smile. 

“You don’t even have emojis on here, how do you survive? Hell, do you even know what an emoji is?” He was beginning to think that the whole hippie look that Aziraphale gave off wasn’t so much a fashion choice as it was that Aziraphale had just stopped updating back in the sixties. (He wasn’t quite old enough for that, but he acted like it). 

“I know what an emoji is.” Aziraphale insisted, pouting more. He took his phone back and looked at the text thread Crowley had left it on. “Oh, were you planning on texting?” He sounded surprised. “What the hell else would I be doing?” He couldn’t possibly expect that Crowley was going to c- 

“You could call.” Aziraphale insisted, taking the idea right out of Crowley’s thoughts. Crowley sighed. He always hated phone calls, it was so much easier to just text someone. But then, there was the fact that Aziraphale seemed to _want_ him to call. That had to count for something. If that was what Aziraphale wanted… 

“Well, I suppose we ought to go in.” Aziraphale started for the door before Crowley could suggest anything else, pulling open the door and holding it there expectantly. “After you,” 

Crowley gave up on drawing the night out any longer and went inside. “What floor are you on?” He asked, thinking he might be able to get away with at least walking him there (ignoring the thought of Gabriel spotting them). 

“Top,” Aziraphale said, as if that was a given. “You?” 

“First floor,” Crowley replied despondently. “Beez’ll never admit it, but they hate heights.” Why that meant all of them had to stay on the first floor in the worst rooms, he didn’t know. He had a sneaking suspicion that they just wanted all of them to be uncomfortable. 

“Well, goodnight then.” Aziraphale told him pleasantly, already turning away. 

“Goodnight,” He said weakly, resigning himself to this being the end of the night. 


	5. Call Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley has an anxiety attack over the thought of texting Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *
> 
> Consistency? What is that? I've never been able to post on a steady schedule, so enjoy a short chapter where I'm already breaking my pattern and writing a second chapter in a row from Crowley's POV. Really, this is all me being self-indulgent and wanting to write Crowley being a total teenage girl over the idea of texting his crush. I DO finally have an idea of where I'm taking this story, I just have no idea how long it will take me to get there.
> 
> In addition, if anyone is interested in more general content for this AU, please look me up on tiktok! I'm also under grandmatabs, and I've got a whole tag and several cosplays dedicated to this AU.

* * *

* * *

It was with real effort that Crowley made himself wait until the next day to compose a text to Aziraphale. Only, once he finally deemed he’d waited long enough (it felt longer than it really was after a sleepless night) he sat down to write it and realized this meant he had to decide what to say. 

_Had fun last night. _

He deleted that and stared at the screen. 

_Lunch? _

He deleted that one too. It was ridiculous, really, as he wrote and deleted another text. He was a grown man. Aziraphale was also a grown man, this shouldn’t be difficult. Send a text, get along, move on with life. He shouldn’t be feeling as if his entire future hung by the thread of a single text message. This wasn’t _him. _ He didn’t get stuck on people, he didn’t care what anyone thought of him and he bloody well wasn’t _kind._ He set the phone down and walked to the other side of the hotel room to turn the tv on. In a subconscious movement, he returned to the phone, picked it up, then launched himself onto the overstuffed bed to stare at the morning news reported who had just flickered to life. 

Funny, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been up early enough to see the morning news. He let himself fade into the thoughtlessness of it, and he fell asleep again. 

* * *

The next day, Crowley tried again to craft the perfect text. He tried,

_This hotel has terrible coffee, want to find somewhere else for breakfast? _

And, 

_Love to see the view from the top floor. _

But they felt too forward, too desperate, and the day passed without any messages sent from his phone. The third day though, the third day they were going to be leaving town (while Crowley had conveniently booked them in several of the same towns, the next several shows were separate). He spent the whole of the morning staring at his phone, trying out countless possible messages and finally settling for sending a simple, 

_hey_

Immediately after, Crowley chucked the sleek phone to the end of his bed and felt a sudden urge to run to the bathroom and excuse his breakfast from his stomach. Instead, he lasted all of five seconds before diving down to the end of the bed himself and grabbing at the phone to see if there was a reply. There was not. Probably because Crowley had only sent a one-word text and that wasn’t worth a reply. Probably because Aziraphale had already blocked his number. Probably because Aziraphale actually had a life and wasn’t sitting, pathetically staring at his phone and waiting for a text message, unlike Crowley. He had better things to do, surely, he was busy. 

Crowley dropped the phone. He turned on the TV. He turned off the TV. His phone buzzed and he scrabbled at it, only to find a message from Hastur informing him that the band was going to a museum and Crowley was not invited. Crowley deleted it and returned to his moping. As if he would _want_ to go to a museum with the rest of them. Probably a wax museum, full of unnerving, lifeless figures staring with dead eyes. That sounded like the sort of place that Beelzebub would enjoy. Or maybe it was the jazz museum he’d seen an add for and specifically not sent to the rest of the group. 

His phone buzzed again and Crowley scrabbled again, but this time it was Beelzebub calling and he decidedly tapped _‘ignore’._ He checked the time stamp on his text. Five minutes. It had been five minutes since he sent it, and nothing. There was no check beside it either, but he thought Aziraphale’s phone was probably too old to inform other phones whether or not messages had been read. 

Crowley decided to soothe himself in the only manner he knew how to. He called room service and ordered copious amounts of food and alcohol, charging it to Beelzebub’s account. By the time he’d hung up the phone, he’d spent ten minutes on it and his phone was blinking a notification light to let him know he had a text message. With forced slowness, Crowley picked up the phone, expecting another text from one of the band members. Instead, Aziraphale’s name flashed across the screen and Crowley’s stomach did something complicated. It took him longer than it should have to gather up the wits to tap the message, and then to bring himself to read the long chunk of text. 

_Crowley, Kind of you to message. I admit, I was thinking you must have decided not to contact. How are you this morning? We’ve had a trying few days with Gabriel very upset about the concert. I do hope your side hasn’t been as upset about the situation. Have you had any more shows in town? We just had the one, and we haven't done much apart from that. Apart from Gabriel, it's been rather nice to have some time to relax. Best wishes, Aziraphale. _

Crowley felt as though he’d just read a letter that might have been sent on horseback and traveled for several weeks to reach him. _Best wishes?_ At least this explained why it had taken so long, all of it perfect spelling and grammar, from that tiny, dysfunctional keyboard of his. Aziraphale was, without a doubt, the strangest and best person Crowley had ever met. The angry knot in his stomach was turning into giddy restlessness now, and he began to pace the room as he reread the text a dozen times. Without allowing himself to think about it, he tapped the call button at the top of the screen. 

His restless energy spiraled further with the sound of the ringtone pressed to his ear and Crowley had to remind himself to breathe. This was ridiculous, he was not in high school anymore. He was not nervous about the idea of talking on the phone with someon- 

“Hello, Crowley.” 

Something stuttered at the sound of the perfectly pleasant voice on the other end of the line. He forgot what he was supposed to say in response to an average greeting. 

“Oh dear, I haven’t gotten it wrong, have I? I assumed this was a friend of mine, my mistake,” 

“This is Crowley,” Crowley finally worked out, wearing a ridiculous smile over the fact that Aziraphale had referred to him as a friend. 

“Oh good! That would have been dreadfully embarrassing.” There was a dull murmur behind his voice, giving the impression that he was somewhere with a lot of people about. Crowley let the silence hang another moment too long, trying to think of what to say. 

“We don’t have any more shows in town,” he managed, after Aziraphale cleared his throat. That had been in the message, right? His mind was going very blank and he hated it, because he was usually rather good with words. It was one of his better traits, in his opinion. If Aziraphale noticed, he didn’t let on. 

“Will you be staying in town long, then?” He went on easily, something about it causing Crowley’s heart to fall back into a normal rhythm. 

“Leaving today,” he said in best attempt at nonchalance, “thought maybe you’d like to try a restaurant I found,” he was holding his breath. The world had gone still around him, and he could hear blood pounding in his ears as he waited for a reply, the moment stretching into years of silence. 

“So sorry, we’re leaving today as well. At the airport now, in fact. Gabriel is probably going to come looking for me soon, we’ve got to board in a few minutes.” 

Maybe it was just wistful imagination, but Crowley though he did sound disappointed about it. Crowley himself was feeling regret bounce off of every party of his body. If he had just texted sooner.. 

“Where are you off to next?” Aziraphale asked, when Crowley didn’t reply. 

“Hm? Oh.” Crowley named their next show, already aware that it wasn’t in the same place at all. Again, Aziraphale might have sounded disappointed. They went back and forth on the next three destinations until they came to the one Crowley already knew was in the same town and Aziraphale definitely sounded relieved. 

“I suppose, rain check, then?” He offered, tentatively. Crowley grinned. “Oh! If it’s not on the same night, I’ll get you a ticket for our show,” he suggested. The grin faded. He found his shoulders knotting up at the thought of it. He hadn’t been to any kind of Christian concert (or stepped foot in a church) since getting sacked from the one band, and he’d been quite happy at the thought of keeping that up. He’d done his very best to not think about anything at all to do with religion or God or Christianity, and while some part of him had known this would have to happen eventually with Aziraphale, he had sort of hoped it wouldn’t be so soon. 

“Unless, you don’t want to come?” Aziraphale sounded deflated and before Crowley could think of what he was saying, he replied with, 

“Course, Angel. I’ll get you a ticket to ours, as well.” 

Through the phone, he could feel Aziraphale brighten. “Oh, perfect! Ah, sorry now, I see Gabriel looking around, I’ve got to go. It was lovely talking to you, call again?” 

Crowley didn’t get a chance to reply, hearing the rumble of Gabriel’s voice saying something indistinct, and then the line went dead. He pulled the phone away from his ear and frowned at it. It wasn’t the phone’s fault, but it was nice to blame something for how rudely a nice conversation had been interrupted. Maybe nice was an overstatement. He had just promised to attend one of Heavenbound’s concerts. Then, Aziraphale was also attending one of the Hellhound Quartet’s concerts, and Crowley didn’t have to be on stage. He could already picture pulling Aziraphale back into a cozy soundbooth, setting the soundboard to autopilot and-he was getting ahead of himself. 

_Call again. _

He would call again. He was thinking that maybe there was something to this ‘calling over texting’ idea, because hearing Aziraphale’s voice had been a far sight better than reading a ridiculously formal text message. Yes, he would call again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *
> 
> Irrelevant note: Beelzebub was actually calling to invite Crowley to go with them. They're not quite as much of a dick as Hastur is, in this AU.


	6. Hellhound Quartet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale makes Crowley into an expensive whore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for how long this chapter took to get up, things have been crazy for me lately! But here it is now, and if anyone is interested, I started another fic of Beelzebub and Gabriel's pov of this story as well, you can find it on my page.
> 
> * * *

It was his third outfit of the night and Aziraphale was feeling increasingly ridiculous. He rarely put much thought into his outfits. Of course, he put much care into them and wanted to look good for any events, but this was different. This was a jazz concert and this was Crowley inviting him to said jazz concert (and he only guess it would entail either dinner or drinks after, not that it was a date). 

How did one dress for a jazz concert? His usual concert outfit had already been dismissed, of course. His everyday outfits wouldn’t do, either. He’d picked through slacks and shirts, each feeling wrong for the occasion. In the end he settled on a pale pair of tan pants and a blue dress shirt he stole from Gabriel’s suitcase. He was trying to look a little nicer, but the sleeves of the thing were too long and he gave up fighting them after fifteen minutes and, in a fit of rage (or whatever it was that Aziraphale felt similar to rage), he ripped the sleeves off entirely. He also immediately regretted it. Not only did that ruin the nicer look he’d been attempting at, there would also be no getting the shirt back to Gabriel unnoticed now, either. It was more comfortable, if nothing else. He did keep his usual rainbow suspenders, feeling too unlike himself without them. It was an odd look, to be sure, but after an hour of changing clothes, it was the best he was going to get without asking for help and he was not about to ask for help. A part of him wanted to apply his usual concert makeup, as Crowley had never seen him in anything else, but the more sensible part of him told him to apply something more understated, so he went simplistic instead. 

By the time he actually stepped into the concert hall, he had worked himself into a right state. His palms were sweating and he was regretting every aspect of his outfit, makeup, and decision to arrive early. Two hours before the show was set to begin, to be exact, and that was just excessive. Azriaphale did his best to slip inside unnoticed. There was the familiar chaos of an upcoming show, only for once he was on the other side of the curtain. It was an odd, out of place sort of feeling, and Aziraphale was already looking around for a quiet spot he could spend the rest of the wait hiding in. 

Obviously Crowley would be occupied with the setup and sound and wouldn’t be able to talk; Aziraphale understood. He was patient, it was only a matter of finding the right spot to be patient in. He was eyeing a chair in the far corner that looked like a safe spot when he finally heard the voice he’d been unconsciously searching for. 

“Angel!” The shout came from his right and Aziraphale turned to see a frantic Crowley running at him. He skidded to a halt not quite a foot away from Aziraphale and there was something off about him in the face. 

“Thank _someone_, Angel, you’re here.” His eyes were wide - _his eyes_. That was the bit that was off. For the first time, Aziraphale was seeing his eyes. They were a nice amber shade, almost yellow in the hall lighting. His usual dark glasses were hanging from the pocket of his shirt at the moment. He was also frantic and grasping, so Aziraphale put a hand on his arm in an attempt to be soothing. 

“Breathe, Crowley. What’s got you so worked up now?” It was the first time he’d really touched Crowley, apart from the inevitable brushes and their initial handshake. He appeared to be all bones and angles, but Aziraphale found a surprising amount of muscle under his fingers and he wasn’t sure what to do with that information. Save it for later, he supposed, as Crowley was already charging on. He reached up and grabbed Aziraphale’s wrist, using that hold to start dragging him off towards the back of the room (not at all following Aziraphale’s suggestion to breathe). 

“I overslept and I didn’t have time to put on makeup and I don’t have a mirror to put it on myself, so you’re going to have to put it on for me.” He breathed it all out in a rush, voice higher pitched than usual and he was looking ahead so steadfastly that it seemed more to do with not looking back. Aziraphale allowed himself to be dragged, feeling something like a smile growing on his face. 

“Dear, don’t you spend the whole night in the sound booth, anyway? Nobody is going to see you besides me.” There was also the matter of him wearing those glasses to cover up his eyes and makeup, anyway. The idea was more disappointing now that Aziraphale knew what those eyes looked like. He could see the tips of Crowley’s ears going pink. 

“It’s the _principle_ of the thing, Angel. I’ve got to have makeup, so if you won’t do it then I’ll put it on myself and I’ll look like a cheap whore. Do you want me to walk around looking like a cheap whore?” He spat out the accusation with more venom than it was worth, dragging Aziraphale up into the sound booth. 

Aziraphale bit back a laugh. “I’ll do your makeup, if it’s that important. I won’t have you walking about like a cheap whore-” 

“I sort of am a cheap whore,” Crowley interrupted, turning to face Aziraphale within the confines of the small booth. The equipment was pristine, the only mess being a box to the side overflowing with assorted makeup. 

“I will make you look like a very expensive whore,” Aziraphale promised, as if Crowley hadn’t said anything at all. Crowley shot him a sharp look, until he saw the smile that that Aziraphale was miserably failing to bite back. He dropped Aziraphale’s wrist as if he’d just realized that he was still holding it. 

“You look nice, tonight. Different.” His ears were definitely creeping towards red, now. Aziraphale fidgeted with the edge of his suspenders in a self-conscious manner. He still felt out of place in the outfit. 

“I wasn’t sure what one wears to a jazz concert,” he admitted with some reluctance, busying himself with approaching the makeup box and fussing through it. It wasn’t what he was used to using, but it was all ridiculously expensive products, mostly unused. From the corner of his eye, he saw Crowley pushing himself up to sit on a free spot on the table, ignoring the chair available. 

“Nobody goes to jazz concerts anymore.” He said, sounding understanding. Aziraphale picked up the box and carried it to set in Crowley’s lap. 

“People come to see the Hellhound Quartet,” he couldn’t help but point out. Crowley’s eyes crinkled slightly in a conspiratorial sort of smile. 

“Pretty sure Beelzebub uses black magic to get fans.” He had lowered his voice to say it, as though they might be listening and Aziraphale failed to smother a laugh. He was standing directly in front of Crowley now, taking the opportunity to study his face and attempt to decide what he could do for makeup. Crowley shifted after a long moment of it and Aziraphale reminded himself staring was still not polite. 

“Ah, anyway. What would you like me to do for your makeup?” It would be easy to stand and stare for the next few hours, at the sharp planes of his face and the few freckles that were visible with him not wearing makeup. He thought maybe it was a shade pinker than normal, too. 

“Whatever you like, Angel,” he offered with a slight shrug. Aziraphale redirected his gaze back town to the box in Crowley’s lap. It was a bit daunting to decide on his own, though plenty of ideas were dancing through his head. He didn’t think that Crowley would care for all of them. He glanced back up, a slight smile tugging at his mouth. 

“Are you sure you’re alright with _whatever I like?_” He added the emphasis on the last few words as fair warning to Crowley. He had to know what to expect from Aziraphale, given the concert makeup that he usually wore around him. Crowley turned slightly redder. 

“I don’t think I’d look as good in a rainbow as you, but if that’s what you like..” His hands had curled over the edge of the table and he was the one to break eye contact now. 

“No no, I would only do something suited to you. But if I have full creative liberty..” he would definitely push Crowley’s usual boundaries if he had the opportunity. He was filling up with ideas of ways to set off the amber eyes and cheekbones. Crowley nodded. “Right, maybe the chairs would be better. I’m not sure I feel up to standing the whole time…” He picked the box back up and Crowley slithered off the table to take a chair instead, his usual sprawl only offset by his need to lean forward so Aziraphale could reach his face. 

“Have at it,” he said, all that Aziraphale needed for permission. He slid the other available chair directly in front of Crowley’s and took a seat, trying not to dwell on how their knees pressed together in that arrangement. In fact, it was all very intimate and he was wondering if he should have made an excuse to avoid the responsibility. Well, he didn’t think Crowley would have accepted any excuses. And so he began. 

The basics of the face were not difficult, and Crowley dutifully shifted his head and moved with Aziraphale’s fingers at every prompting. The eyeshadow, more difficult, as Aziraphale had no choice but to lean in close and rest the side of his hand against Crowley’s cheek to steady it. Crowley’s eyes darted between different points of the sound booth, and occasionally found their way to Aziraphale’s, nearly causing him to smudge his work. He chose darks and reds, which had a way of setting his hair even brighter and contrasting against his pale eyes (Aziraphale had given up trying not to appreciate it all). He could have left it at that and moved back to his own space, job done. 

Still, there was more he wanted to do with this one chance to do it, and as hard the close proximity made it for him to breathe, he wasn’t sure he was ready to give it up, either. He liked the occasional appreciative sweep of Crowley’s eyes, which he pretended not to notice. He liked being able to tell Crowley to turn this way or that and have Crowley do it. He knew he was digging himself deeper into a hole that would only be painful to drag himself out of, but he still couldn’t bring himself to set the shovel down. He started drawing on flowers below Crowley’s eyes. They were more understated than the ones he gave himself for concerts, smaller and darker in color, more fitting to Crowley. He also couldn’t stop himself from adding curling vines beneath Crowley’s eyes (which had him pressing a thumb just above Crowley’s chin to keep the skin taut). Lastly, he turned his attention down to the lips and ordered his heart to behave itself (it didn’t listen). Full lipstick didn’t suit, he didn’t think. He doubted he could handle that, either. He settled for a thin black stripe on the lower lip, overly-conscious of everything as he steadied a knuckle against Crowley’s bottom lip and drew the line. He could feel every breath that left Crowley’s mouth and it took every ounce of his concentration and will to keep his hand from shaking and took keep from looking up. Crowley was perfectly still, perfectly silent, until Aziraphale was done. 

Then Aziraphale pulled away and capped the pen. He still couldn’t look up at Crowley, busying himself with putting away everything he’d used and trying to teach his heart a normal rhythm again. Crowley was still watching him, which didn’t make it any easier. He took more time than he really needed to put everything back and close up the box of makeup, sure to get himself steady again before he dared to look up at Crowley, who’s eyes were still fixed on him. He forced himself to smile. “Well then, I suppose you’ll want to go check a mirror, make sure I did it alright.” A small part of him did worry that Crowley would hate it and wipe it all off. Or worse, he would hate it and leave it out on out of forced politeness. But he just replied with a tentative smile of his own and a, 

“Nah, I trust you Angel.” 

Aziraphale’s heart went back to misbehaving. He found it suddenly very important to stand and find somewhere else to put the box, anywhere else, anywhere that took him further away from Crowley because he wasn’t sure what he would do if he remained in such close proximity much longer. 

“That’s very kind of you, really unnecessary. I understand my style isn’t to everyone’s liking.” He finally shoved the box into a far corner of the booth, only now his hands had nothing to occupy themselves with, so they wrung together as he turned back around to face Crowley. His eyebrows were now drawn together in some mix of confusion and concern. 

“I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t want you to do it. I didn’t really ask, actually.” He pointed it out easily and Aziraphale swung wildly in the opposite direction, now feeling foolish for asking. Were his nerves always this bad, or was it just something with the smallness of this space? 

“Right, yes, of course.” He really should have had a smoke before the concert. He was itching for it now, anything to mellow out the tightly strung chord that was forming between his shoulder blades. Usually only Gabriel could get that particular knot going, but Crowley was doing an excellent job of it as well. “I suppose I ought to let you get ready for the show, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of work to do.” He’d probably taken up too much time already with the makeup, he hadn’t thought about that when he’d kept adding to it. Had Crowley been regretting asking him the entire time, wondering why Aziraphale had taken so long? Crowley lurched forward in his chair, seeming to only catch himself at the last second and merely shifted positions instead, sitting forward and resting his forearms on his knees as if that’s what he had meant to do the whole time. 

“You don’t have to,” the words tumbled out in a rush. “I mean, I don’t really do much back here, to be honest. I sort of figured we could spend the concert back here, if you like. Not that you have to.” He sounded more like Aziraphale felt, stilted and unsure. Oddly enough, that made Aziraphale feel less stilted and unsure. He hesitated and wavered back into the booth. On one hand, he could make his excuses about watching the performance and leave, slip outside to cut the edge off his anxiety with the help he’d brought, but on the other hand he could spend the night in the (cozy?) sound booth with Crowley. Against all usual rationality, the latter won out. Aziraphale took a step back towards Crowley. 

“If you’re sure that I won’t distract you...I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.” 

Crowley waved a hand off, visibly relaxing. “Nah, they’ll probably prefer it if I don’t do much. Really just fuck with them constantly back here during shows, but they can’t fire me because I’m the only one willing to put up with all of them.” He leaned back in his chair once more now that Aziraphale had more or less agreed to stay, kicking his feet up on the long table that held all the sound equipment. Some of the chord between Aziraphale’s shoulders unwound. 

“Are they that difficult to deal with?” He thought he would like to sit back down, but there was no polite way to pull the empty chair away from its spot directly in front of Crowley. Crowley made another dismissive gesture. 

“Depends on which one. Hastur’s the worst, but he’s dumb enough to screw with. Beelzebub can be mean, but they still watch out for everyone. Ligur’s an idiot, and Dagon, yeah, everyone avoids Dagon. Once I figured out how to deal with them, this has been one of the easiest jobs I’ve ever had.” 

“Doesn’t sound too bad,” Aziraphale agreed, settling for leaning against the table instead of sitting. He wasn’t sure he could say the same about Heavenbound, if he was being painfully honest about it. 

“_Crowley_!” The shout was followed by a series of angry, rapid footsteps coming up the stairs to the booth, before Beelzebub’s head made an appearance. Their expression did something odd when they saw Aziraphale there, and he could feel his face going warm. He knew he wasn’t doing anything wrong, but something about the whole situation made him feel like he was. Just as quickly, Beelzebub seemed to dismiss his presence, turning to Crowley and scowling. 

“We need to do sound tests, the concert is starting in half an hour. Quit flirting and get your shit together.” They disappeared again before Crowley could get a word in edgewise, but he was already spinning his chair around to face the sound booth. 

“Sound tests,” he muttered with derision, “they don’t even need them, nobody gives a shit how they sound,” it was all rapid mutter, the kind that gave Aziraphale the impression that it was a routine complaint, and so he stayed silent. Watching Crowley’s hands fly over different aspects of the board, a language that Aziraphale had never learned. To him, it was all just knobs and dials, but Crowley moved around it like it was a practiced dance. He snagged a pair of headphones and slammed those onto his ears irritably. Aziraphale took the chance to drag the other chair to what he considered a safe distance from Crowley and sit down it once more to watch. Crowley stayed busy for another ten minutes or so, occasionally muttering orders into a mike that seemed to go to the players on stage. Dim music began outside the sound booth, but Aziraphale couldn’t make out if it sounded any good or not. With an air of finality, Crowley shoved the headphones down around his neck, heaved a sigh, and looked over at Aziraphale. 

“Sorry about that, should be the worst of it. I’m all yours for the rest of the night.” 

He wasn’t lying. Of course there were a few times here and there that Crowley put one side of the headphones up to an ear, listened for a moment, and adjusted something. There were also moments where he offered one of the earpieces to Aziraphale and Aziraphale would lean in close enough to listen, too distracted by the closeness to really hear how the music sounded. For the most part though, the evening passed in rapid fire conversation that they had fallen into with every other meeting. Only here, Crowley was clearly in his element and more relaxed than Aziraphale had ever seen him. 

This booth was his own little kingdom, and he made an art over playing God with his band. He peppered in odd sound effects that Aziraphale tried his best not to laugh at, picturing what the band must think Very few times, Crowley sang along. It was the funny sort of singing, not meant to be taken seriously, and it had unfailingly made Aziraphale laugh. He thought he could hear a good voice under it all, though. He thought it might be nice to hear Crowley sing under a different setting at some point, although he was doing his very best not to think any future sort of thoughts. _Put down the shovel_, he kept telling himself, as he just kept digging himself deeper into the hole. 

After the show, Aziraphale again waited patiently for Crowley to pack up his ‘baby’ (the sound board) safely into their band’s trailer, and the two of them snuck out of the concert hall before any of the Hellhound Quartet could stop them. Crowley picked a restaurant where Aziraphale could eat and he could drink and the whole of it was dangerously wonderful. It was only once Crowley got him in front of the house they had rented instead of a hotel for this stop, that Aziraphale realized this could have been considered a date and there could be something like a kiss to end it, and he muttered some panicked goodnight before practically running inside to get away from Crowley. The memory of the confusion and hurt on his face as Aziraphale had abruptly ended the evening kept him up most of the night. 


	9. Almost is Never Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale finds a very drunk Crowley and escorts him 'home' for the night.

Aziraphale could hardly focus on the rest of the concert. There were only a few songs left in the set, but his mind was elsewhere. Of course he had known it was a bad idea to force Crowley into coming to the concert, but that hadn’t stopped him from trying, from hoping. Only now Crowley had left and he was probably angry and would never speak to Aziraphale again. This was what he got for always trying too hard. He had known better, but he was always pushing a little too far, he just wanted some things so badly. 

_Some things_. He wanted Crowley and there was no point in pretending he didn’t anymore. He wanted things he had long since given up on wanting and it was stupid because he’d been told the dangers of ‘missionary dating’ since he was old enough to even consider dating. He knew that even if Crowley was okay with his faith in the beginning, that would sour eventually. He would grow bitter when it became clear that he would always come second in Aziraphale’s life, he would learn to hate how Aziraphale prayed first about everything. Stupid. No point in even worrying about it now that Crowley had left, not that he had likely ever had any interest in Aziraphale in the first place. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

By the time the concert finally ended, Aziraphale didn’t wait around to ask Gabriel if he could leave, and his brother was too busy staring at his phone to notice him slipping out. He muttered something to Michael first, who might have told him good luck, or might have told him to fuck off, it was always so hard to tell. Then he was free. 

Avoiding the fans wasn’t an easy task, but he found a way around the back of the stadium that was mostly free of people, and he’d thrown a jacket over his regular outfit and pulled on a beanie. As far as disguises went, it was weak, but it kept anyone from looking too closely and gave him a fast escape. He picked a direction that seemed to hold the most potential and started walking. It was only two blocks before he found a crowded bar, people spilling out the exits and music pulsing inside. It took some shoving and firmly worded _‘excuse me’s’_ to make his way inside, the effort rewarding him with a spot of red hair off in a corner of the room. 

Crowley was already drunk. Or maybe drunk was an understatement. It was impressive, really, how much he had managed to put away in such a short time. The shot glasses covering the table might have had something to do with that, and his glasses hung crooked on his face, hair disheveled and face scruffy. It was the least put together Aziraphale had ever seen him and his concern immediately skyrocketed. He had expected Crowley to be drinking, and he had expected Crowley to be angry. Instead, he was well into drunk and he was - crying? No, it was just the way the bar lights were hitting his golden eyes. A trick of the light. 

“Crowley?” He asked as he approached, tentative, careful. Crowley’s head swiveled upwards, eyes unfocused. He seemed to have some effort in placing Aziraphale and it took a moment before his pupils dilated and he shouted, 

“Angel!” 

Aziraphale flinched, before recognizing the familiar nickname. He stepped up to the table, while Crowley looked through the glasses on his table in search of the one that still had some amber liquid in it. When he found it, Aziraphale snagged it from him and turned to set it on a nearby table instead, earning a glare from the people sitting at it that he ignored. 

“Angel, wh’d you do th’t?” Crowley slurred at him, halfheartedly reaching after it. 

“I think you’ve had enough, dear.” Aziraphale replied, brushing his hands off. Crowley slumped back in his chair and pouted. _Pouted_. 

“-think you’ve had ‘nough,” he muttered. His arms were crossed and he was looking at Aziraphale like a sullen child, but the glare lost its effectiveness with the sunglasses slid down his nose and lopsided. 

“You left the concert.” He saw no point in dancing around the issue, so he laid it out flat and clasped his hands together in front of him. In an instant, Crowley went from sullen to shamed, shoving his glasses up his nose once more and looking away. His jaw ticked and Aziraphale couldn’t tell if he was upset, or getting ready to vomit. Possibly both. 

“M’ no good angel.” He drawled it out too carefully, too thoughtfully. He’d been preparing for this, and it showed in the way he swung his focus back around suddenly, swaying and drunk and intense. “I got kicked out f’ a Christin band, y’know? They knew what worthless piece of shit I am,” he waved a wild hand that Aziraphale thought was probably meant to gesture to himself, but just swung about above his head instead. Something in his chest was sinking with understanding, putting together the pieces of what broken things made up Crowley. 

“I tol’ myself m’ never gonna hang around anymore f’ your type. Stick with m’ own kind, shitty, shit, shitbags, then you jis show up and,” he made another complicated hand gesture in Aziraphale’s direction, then dropped his head to the table. 

“_Fuck_. Point is, ‘m no good angel. Better off sticking to yours.” 

Clearly, he expected Aziraphale to leave after his little speech, his forehead remaining glued to the sticky top of the table. Aziraphale, on the other hand, felt glued to the spot. He ached with anger at those who had hurt Crowley, so unfairly. It was the opposite of what _‘his kind’_ was meant to stand for. He couldn’t be angry when he responded, though. He needed to be calm and reassuring. He never got the chance to put together a proper reply. Crowley lurched up again, a few shades greener than before, eyes wild and searching. Aziraphale held out a hand. 

“I’ll get you to the bathroom,” he promised. It took Crowley a few tries to grab Aziraphale’s hand, and he nearly pulled them both to the floor when he fell off his chair, but Aziraphale managed to get and arm around his waist and haul the slim man to the bathroom. He offered a brief prayer of thanksgiving that nobody was getting too familiar in the bathrooms at the moment, and shouldered aside people loitering in order to drag Crowley in. Moments later he was pulling hair out of Crowley’s face as the other man heaved into what might have once been a toilet. His hair was impossibly soft and ringleted, a fact Aziraphale did his best not to notice. Really, this was not how he had wanted to dig his hands into Crowley’s hair. When Crowley was finished, Aziraphale wet a paper towel and handed it to him to wipe his face. Crowley did not look at him. 

“I think I’d best get you home. Or at least, wherever home is for now,” Aziraphale had decided it, and Crowley was not going to talk him out of it. Crowley looked too ashamed of himself to try to talk anyone out of anything. He silently allowed Aziraphale to pull him off the bathroom floor and drag him out of the bar. Hailing a cab was no easy task with a drunk man hung loosely over him, but he finally managed to convince one to stop and wrestle Crowley into the back seat and rattle off the address of the rented house. He slid in next to Crowley and he was still stone silent, refusing to look at Aziraphale. 

“Crowley,” he said firmly. Crowley looked in his general direction, but his glasses were back on now and Aziraphale couldn’t make out where his eyes had actually landed. Nonetheless, Aziraphale did his best to make his voice solid and unmoving, while still kind. 

“That band that removed you, they were the ones in the wrong. You deserve better than that.” 

If possible, Crowley looked even more miserable. “You dunno me,” he mumbled, just loud enough to be heard. “I think that I do,” Aziraphale reached over and pulled the glasses from Crowley’s face, tired of being unable to see his eyes. He folded them with care and placed them in the front pocket of his coat (Gabriel’s stolen coat, but close enough), then he gathered up all his courage and pressed a hand to Crowley’s face. Crowley went so still, he might not have been breathing. 

“And my dear, I think you deserve the world.” He removed his hand and placed it in his lap, telling himself not to shake. He had, apparently, left Crowley speechless. Whether or not that was a good thing, he couldn’t decide. The silence that filled up the cab after that was a palpable thing, thick and heavy like a blanket, interrupted only once the cabbie pulled up to a curb and announced that they had arrived. Aziraphale paid and managed to extract Crowley from the cab and drag him off to the house, stumbling and muttering. 

“Glass ‘f wine?” He suggested as Aziraphale shut the door behind them and deposited Crowley on the couch. 

“How about a glass of water?” Aziraphale didn’t wait for the answer, but he had a weighty sense that Crowley was pouting at him as soon as he turned his back and headed towards the kitchen for a glass. Moments later, he was returning with a full glass of water and shoving it at Crowley, who obligingly downed half of it. 

“Sorry,” he managed, clasping the glass in his lap and looking down. He looked uncomfortable without his glasses, but Aziraphale had no intentions of giving them back. 

“I think I’m the one who should be apologizing,” if Aziraphale was more than a little wry and reluctant with the apology, Crowley didn’t appear to notice. Instead his head shot up, an overestimated gesture that left him with his chin high and eyes wide. 

“What?” He asked. Then, “no,” his eyebrows were drawn together, concern going deeper and deeper with each passing moment and Aziraphale had to clasp his hands together to keep himself from reach over and smoothing the crease between his brows. 

“I pushed you to go to the concert and I knew that it would be uncomfortable for you. I’m not sure what you’ve dealt with in your life, but I know you don’t currently share my faith. I thought I could change your mind. Well, more aptly put, I thought I could change you. And that was wrong of me. I never wanted to upset you.” His own eyes were directed down at his lap by the end of it, unwilling to see Crowley’s reaction. There was guilt laced along his words, knowing that he had crossed a line he shouldn’t have crossed. Maybe not in inviting Crowley to the concert, but in his intentions for inviting Crowley. 

Crowley was silent for a while, and then, “s’fine angel.” 

Aziraphale looked up. He wasn’t sure what he was hoping to see in Crowley’s face, or even what he had expected to see. Anger, maybe. Resignation. In reality, he just looked drunk. He sighed. 

“Do you think you could survive a shower?” He tried. Crowley turned very thoughtful again on the matter, eyebrows pulling back together as though it was a monumental decision, and he shrugged. In their past meetings, Crowley talked quite a lot when drunk. Currently, he seemed rather set on using as few syllables as possible 

“Come on then.” 

Getting Crowley into the shower proved to be a more difficult feat. Crowley kept stumbling and getting dizzy, then getting nauseous, then saying he ought to leave, then fussing over the clothes Aziraphale provided. Finally though, Aziraphale practically shoved him into the shower and left the bathroom. A few moments later he heard the sound of the shower running and he breathed a little easier. What a mess the night had become. He just couldn’t stop himself from digging further and further into this hole of his, knowing full well that it was going to have an ugly end, and all this had proved was that he could hurt more than just himself. The best thing to do would be to stop talking to Crowley entirely, give them both space to go on with their lives. Oh, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to spend time around Crowley, he wanted to watch out for him on these messy nights, he wanted to have Crowley around. 

That seemed like a tomorrow kind of problem. Crowley dealt with for the moment, Aziraphale returned to the kitchen and started a pot of tea. That always made things better, in the long run. He started a pot of coffee as well, with the feeling that Crowley was more likely to want a cup of coffee than tea. What he was entirely not prepared for, was attempting to poor himself a cup of tea while Crowley rounding into the kitchen, wet hair around his shoulders and feet bare. It was a real wonder that he didn’t spill the scalding water all over himself, though he did set the kettle down a tad hard on the counter. 

“I made you coffee,” he told Crowley, and if his voice was a squeak, Crowley was still too drunk to notice. He just looked surprised and grateful when Aziraphale poured him a cup, taking a careful sip of it. “Didn’t have to come pick me up,” he finally said, still slurring his words, but less than he had been when Aziraphale first found him. 

“Would you like something to eat?” Aziraphale asked, ignoring him. Crowley shifted in the small kitchen, fingers curled around the basic white mug and looking entirely out of his element. 

“Couldn’t keep anything down.” He answered, and he did still look a little green now that Aziraphale really looked. He started to make some toast anyway. He had to eat something after emptying out his stomach at the bar and in any case, it gave him something to do. 

“I’ll make some buttered toast, and you can eat what you can, alright? Nothing to upset your stomach too badly, but hopefully settle it a bit before bed.” It was easier to busy himself with something, focus on a task, ignore the fact that Crowley was very definitely staring at him as he did. His mind could come up with a million reasons why Crowley might be staring, but he was refusing to entertain a single one of them. 

“You’re being too nice,” Crowley finally said, as Aziraphale was buttering the second slice of toast. He tried to remain steady. 

“Hardly,” the last of the butter might not have been spread as evenly, but he didn’t think Crowley would notice. “I’m being exactly as nice as I ought to. This is what friends do for each other, isn’t it?” He turned and offered the plate to Crowley, who was still moving a little unsteadily, but took it. He took it and he didn’t move, fixing Aziraphale with a long, searching look that was a little unnerving from his golden eyes. He looked like he wanted to say something monumental, but changed his mind at the last moment to give a half-hearted smile. 

“Guess ‘ve had some real shit friends.” 

Aziraphale picked up his own mug of tea and told himself not to think about what Crowley might have been about to say. He patted Crowley lightly on the arm as he passed out of the kitchen and retreated once more to the small living room to take a seat on the couch. 

“If it’s any consolation, I’ll be more than happy to be your friend now, dear. Come have seat, eat your toast.” He pushed a pillow to the side on the couch and told himself it was entirely normal for two friends to sit next to each other on a couch while there were two other chairs in the room. Crowley apparently agreed with that sentiment, because he did come and sit down near Aziraphale on the couch. Not nearly near enough to touch, but it was on the couch. He sipped at his coffee again. 

“Shouldn’t’ve called you a bastard,” he muttered into the mug. Aziraphale raised a mild eyebrow. He assumed that Crowley was referencing the time he’d told Aziraphale that he was a bastard deep down, even though everyone thought he was sweet, and even if he had protested it at the time, he’d been thinking that Crowley had figured him out much too quickly. 

“You’re vrry nicccce,” he drew out the hiss at the end of nice like a snake, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure if it was intentional, or if he was just slurring still. 

“Eat your toast.” He replied. “I wasn’t very nice to make you come tonight.” 

Crowley took a microscopic bite of toast and muttered around it, “didn’t mean any harm by it,” another microscopic bite, “tryna save my soul or whatever.” 

Aziraphale, very suddenly, felt very terrible sad. He nodded, and that felt sad too. “Yes, I suppose I was.” It was sometimes an overwhelming thing to think that he couldn’t save everyone. That he could have someone he loved very much (not that he loved Crowley in a romantic sense of course, that would be absurd) and know that they would, someday, be separated forever. He wasn’t sure whether he should feel very very sad, or very very angry over that fact. It was a dangerous thing to get angry, he knew, but as he watched Crowley nibble away at his piece of toast, there was a bit of anger welling up inside of him. 

_Lord, why do you make life so difficult? Why does it all have to hurt so much? _

There was no clear answer, possibly because he already knew. Humans in their fallen world and fallen people and fallen angels. It didn’t feel too hard to picture Crowley as a fallen angel in that moment. Angry and bitter and _hurting_. Aziraphale wished more than anything that there was something he could say to take the pain away, to make it all make sense. But it wasn’t a thing that could be given through words or a clever line mass-produced for all to hear. It was a thing that had to be felt on a personal level. 

As if feeling him staring, Crowley looked up. He looked soft, hair falling around his face, only a few smudges of eyeliner left, no glasses. In retrospect, Aziraphale wasn’t sure how he had ever thought of the other man as sharp. There were no edges left on him now. 

“D’I have crumbs everywhere?” Crowley asked, clearly growing subconscious and swiping at his mouth. 

“Oh no,” and then as Aziraphale really looked, “well, yes. Here,” he leaned in to brush the rest of the crumbs from Crowley’s -well, his- shirt and down to the floor. When they all seemed to be gone, he made the terrible mistake of looking up and discovering just how close they were. He could still smell the whiskey on Crowley’s breath, mixed with the faint scent of coffee and butter. Crowley didn’t move, but it was a very intentional sort of not moving. At some point, they’d found each other’s eyes and now Aziraphale didn’t know if he would ever escape the moment. He didn’t know if he wanted to. 

_SHOVEL DOWN_, his mind was screaming at him, and he had gotten quite good at ignoring his mind, so he allowed himself to glance at Crowley’s lips and feel his own mouth go dry. The distance between them decreased. His heart ran a marathon in his chest, then nearly exploded when a small crash sounded. Aziraphale teleported to the far side of the couch, expecting to see Gabriel striding through the door, despite the earlier text he’d gotten telling him that his brother would be out for the night (something to wonder about later). Instead, he saw Crowley’s plate shattered on the floor, one and a half pieces of toast scattered, and Crowley furiously red while trying to pick up the broken pieces. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said. “Oh, no, don’t do that, you’ll cut yourself,” Aziraphale shifted back enough that he could shoo Crowley’s hands away and pick up the mess himself, refusing to make eye contact as he carried it all to the kitchen and dropped it in the trash. He took a moment there to take a steadying breath, force down the erupting anxiety, then returned to the living room. Crowley’s eyes were fixed on his lap, mug banished to the coffee table. Aziraphale took a very careful seat up against the end of the couch. He told himself that nothing had been about to happen, that Crowley was not interested in him in that way, that there was no reason to panic. Crowley remained silent. 

They sat there, a little too long without looking at each other or speaking. Eventually, rustling spoke of Crowley moving and Aziraphale could feel him leaning closer and panic redoubled as he thought Crowley was about to try to kiss him anyway. But when he turned to look, Crowley merely laid out on the couch, head landing on Aziraphale’s knees. _Head landing on Aziraphale’s knees._

This was surely what death felt like. He didn’t dare to move, to breathe, so afraid he might scare Crowley off. So afraid he might not scare Crowley off. Only once Crowley’s breath began to settle and grow longer, proving he wasn’t planning to move, did Aziraphale relax. Once he was mostly sure that Crowley was asleep, he allowed himself to indulge in running his fingers through Crowley’s hair. Combing through the damp knotty spots, brushing it away from his face, it was a cathartic feeling. He might have spent hours there. He certainly didn’t remember his hands going still or his eyes falling shut, or his own breaths lengthening to match Crowley’s. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So this was a really emotional chapter for me, which was fun. It is probably also the last chapter I'll add for a while, because I really want to catch The Other Side up to this before going on with the next chapter, because I am going to get the two plots intertwining for a while. So be sure to check out The Other Side, I'll be working on that one as much as I can soon!  
P.S. I might be working on a Reverse Omens au soonish, so keep an eye out!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! This is my first fic for AO3, and as of right now it is a oneshot. That being said, I have plans to add to it, and if anyone wants to see more after this I can add to it?


End file.
